Dead Alone. Gay Longworth
Jessie continued talking over him. She’d stuff his insubordination right down his fat throat. ‘DCI Jones has been admitted to hospital with a burst stomach ulcer. He has put me in charge. I’ve written my team down here. Please have an incident, evidence and briefing room set up for when I return from the postmortem, which I am hoping will give us absolute confirmation that the remains are indeed Verity Shore.’
Silence.
‘PC Ahmet will shadow me and DC Burrows will be my second-in-command. Both will be accompanying me to the hospital now. Thank you.’
‘What about me?’ asked Fry. This was a big one, he wanted to be there.
‘Oh yes, DC Fry, thanks for reminding me. Niaz, give those tapes to DC Fry so he can start watching. These are the security tapes from the Dean residence. You see someone leaving, clock it; arriving, clock it; any deliveries clock it, number it, and show me when I get back.’
‘But –’
‘Okay, Niaz, Burrows, you’re with me.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ they said in unison.
Jessie returned to the corridor. It was the first time she could ever remember shaking on the job.
‘Where are those medical records, Burrows?’
‘On their way by bike.’
‘Is that safe?’ asked Jessie as she marched down the corridor.
‘They’re experienced drivers.’
‘Yes, but how are they with large offers of cash?’ Her breathing was returning to normal with every step she took away from Mark Ward. She glanced quickly behind her, didn’t see the press officer spring from a side office, and accidentally sent her flying. Kay Akosa fell back and skidded a few yards on her well-rounded rump before coming to a stop.
‘God, I’m so sorry.’ Jessie helped her up.
‘Don’t you look where you’re going? Didn’t anyone tell you not to run in the corridors?’
‘Yes, at school, when I was twelve.’
Kay Akosa withdrew her hand and brushed it against her other one. Kay had a reputation for being a tyrant, reducing nervous new recruits to tears over their expressions when caught on camera policing a picket line. She’d call them in over their hairstyle, acne, facial hair, weight. Verity Shore wasn’t the only one expected to be image-conscious. These coppers barely had enough money for a beer and a packet of pork scratchings, let alone trendy hairdressers, beauty salons, facials. When Jessie had first appeared at West End Central they needed someone to do a piece to camera outside the building. She could recall Kay Akosa’s fateful words: ‘You’re pretty, you’ll do.’ It wasn’t even a matter for the murder squad. Jessie had refused. She and Mrs Akosa had not shared a canteen experience since.
‘We’ve had every major paper in the country calling about unconfirmed reports that Verity Shore has drowned. What do I tell them?’
‘Nothing.’
‘And one paper knows you were at P. J. Dean’s house this morning.’
‘Shit!’
‘So?’
‘I have nothing to tell you.’
‘I can’t tell them nothing. Nothing won’t do.’
‘We don’t know who we have in the morgue. So no comment.’
‘They already know a body was found.’
‘Fine. So they know as much as we do.’
‘But –’
‘I’ll come to the press office as soon as I know more.’
The woman leant back on her heels and crossed her arms. ‘Where’s Jones?’
Jessie ignored her. She, Niaz and Burrows walked away.
‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the debacle with Jami Talbot,’ Kay called out after them. No one turned around.
‘Have you ever been to a postmortem, Niaz?’ asked Jessie when they reached the car park.
‘No.’
‘Well, you’re in luck. My first was a woman who’d been raped and then strangled and left in a ditch for two weeks. This will be a breeze. Sally said they’d been busy, so there will probably be bodies piled on top of each other on the surrounding tables. It’s cold in there, but I don’t think we’ll be long, so you should be okay. They’ll give you a mask, shoe covers and a green surgical coat.’ She turned to him. ‘You all right with this?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Right. Let’s go.’
The bones lay on the convex stainless steel table, tilted slightly to where the feet should have been. It allowed the running water to drain away with all the excess mud and silt that the departing tide had left. It was the cleanest PM she had ever seen. The photographer clicked. The pathologist listed what was missing. A few small bones that had been found in the nearby mud were brought in from the evidence room. Most had been matched to the skeleton. One had not.
‘Cause of death, unknown. Hairline crack in cerebral vertebrae, recent, could have been caused by being hit over the head. Then again, the body could have been dropped after death. Impossible to say. Female, yes, age between thirty and forty. Early signs of osteoporosis and calcium deficiency. Childhood fracture on the upper arm, almost invisible, nearly missed it. The most interesting thing about this case is the acid test my colleague Sally Grimes did early this morning. She was on site with DI Driver, neither of whom would accept that this was some old drowning victim. The tests are very revealing. Sally, would you like to explain?’
Sally stepped forward.
‘Good afternoon, everyone. The initial test showed that sulphuric acid dissolved the flesh and internal organs, but secondary tests picked up traces of ammonia. Although ammonia could not have done the damage that the sulphuric acid did, it is the reason why the bones are so white. It bleached them.’
‘Like peroxide,’ said Jessie.
‘Peroxide is a much weaker form of ammonia, but yes, in principle they’re the same.’
Jessie looked at the remains of the bottle-blonde with big tits. The implants were in a jar. If Niaz hadn’t found the other implant, they would have had a difficult job on their hands narrowing the field. Verity Shore was not alone. There were many like her. It didn’t need to have been her specifically. It could have been anyone.
‘Do you know who it is?’ asked the pathologist.
DC Burrows’ pager bleeped. He looked at Jessie. ‘Those records are here.’
‘Go.’
She looked back at the pathologist. ‘If the records show a childhood break, then that is Verity Shore. If no break, then someone wants us to think that it is Verity Shore. It could be either.’
It suddenly dawned on the pathologist. ‘Verity Shore, that blonde who is always taking her clothes off? The one with the big knockers?’
‘Dyed blonde and breast enlargements. She was alive last Thursday.’
‘Good God,’ he said, looking back at the bleached bones lying on a plain of running water. That was the worst-case scenario. ‘What’s the best you can hope for?’ he asked.
‘That these are old bones and Verity Shore is headline hunting.’
‘Nobody would go this far,’ said Sally Grimes. ‘Would they?’
No one replied. The publicity stunts by headline-hungry celebrities were becoming increasingly desperate. Getting pregnant didn’t do it. Getting pregnant, taking coke and throwing oneself down the